Tidings of Peace

       My earliest memory of Christmas was when I was four. Until we grew much older, the clan would gather every blanket we could find and sleep on the floor of the living room on Christmas Eve night. Our reasoning was that we would be closer to the presents and Christmas stockings hanging from the mantle, and would be able to get to them faster in the morning. On this particular Christmas, I remember waking up with my sister and running to my parents’ room to get them up. Apparently it was 3 am, and they did not share the same enthusiasm for an early rising. However, my mom is an incredibly understanding person, and she knew we were excited to see what was in our stockings. She let us get one gift each out of our stockings. I don’t remember what I opened, but my sister got a sewing kit. For some reason, I still remember the orange scissors.

       After all these years, one thing that hasn’t changed is that us kids rush to get into our stockings first thing Christmas morning. In all honesty, I would rather sleep in and get to it later, but I have little siblings. And Christmas means the world to them, just as it did to me once. I am not eager for them to grow up. If they see their older siblings less excited than they are, I’m afraid they will be disappointed. So I jump out of bed however early it is and race them down the stairs. Mom follows a few minutes later, starts a fire, and then dad emerge half an hour later. He goes to the kitchen to start some coffee, and my little brother drags him to a chair and brings him his stocking. Dad always gets the same thing: Starbucks gift cards, pistachios, espresso beans, and a random assortment of antique coins or a book. 

       There’s something golden and sacred about my early memories of Christmas. When I was little, Christmas had a certain feeling that made me excited and a bit sorrowful and full of wonder. Every little detail in everything my parents did to make it special, to establish traditions, and make it Christ-honoring. Reading the Christmas story from scripture. Lighting candles. Opening tins of Christmas popcorn (and spilling tremendous amounts on the floor). Celebrating time as a family and blessing each other with presents.

       Why sorrowful? What was it that made me feel that as a four year old on Christmas? I think that even then I understood that I would grow up one day and would outgrow some things. Or maybe everything about Christmas with my family was so beautiful that it was like a small glimpse past the veil of Unsurpassed Beauty. The human heart aches after experiencing or beholding something beautiful; it is like the tides pulled by the moon. We long for the source of beauty; we long to behold something so great and other than. Homesick. Later I would realize that our celebration of the birth of Jesus is also a celebration of His sacrifice. To us a Child is born. For many of us, Christmas involves us being blessed and receiving; for the One who we celebrate, it was about sacrificing. Giving Himself. The sacrifice started long before the cross. What a burden for a newborn baby to take. Traveling to our little world and in humility being born to a virgin and a carpenter. God putting on flesh. Peace on earth and good will to men. Bringing life. What a strange and beautiful thing.